


As Long As There Is Still Life In Me

by impossiblyimprobable



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dehumanization, Dissociation, Drugs, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, M/M, Machines, Mental Institutions, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Sexuality, Slash, Terror, Torture, psychological abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-06 20:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblyimprobable/pseuds/impossiblyimprobable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach AU<br/>Sherlock is captured by Moriarty during his dismantling of the Web.<br/>Can he keep his sense of self, or is it too late?<br/>In desperate need of a beta or someone who will Brit-pick, or even a collaborator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

He wakes with a jolt, his head makes a hollow noise.   
 _Wood._    
  
His head throbs, and he winces at a knob at the back of his skull -  _blunt force trauma, unlikely to be life-threatening._    
  
It takes mere seconds to realize his situation. Stripped of clothing, his coat and suit discarded -  _worse things to come, likely._    
  
His knees cramped painfully to his chest -  _crate_    
  
Freezing cold, strange, open motor sounds. Packages shifting. -  _Cargo hold. Aeroplane, most likely._    
  
He doesn't know where he is being taken, but he has severely underestimated the Web. Should have known better than to chase two agents. He berates himself for his stupidity.   
  
 _Running as fast as his legs would possibly propel him._  
 _Here, in Munich, his contacts had lead him to two agents._  
  
 _He'd been lucky so far with only doing one at a time._  
 _But he hadn't been able to pin the man down - which was why he was chasing him._  
  
 _The other agent was a female - something he did not look forward to._  
 _The alley was narrow and winding and someone was there, just ahead._  
  
 _He bolted for the shadowy figure with another burst of adrenaline._  
  
 _That was the last thing he remembered before everything went black._  
  
He sleeps in small increments, waiting for the plane to reach its destination.   
  
He wakes when the crate shifts. Feeling like no gravity beneath him as the wind sways the [vehicle](http://seriousjokerfan.deviantart.com/).   
  
He ignores the cramping in his legs and back - until his thirst nearly causes him to pass out.   
  
He doesn't know how long the plane ride is - counting will only serve to disorient him and make the pain worse.   
  
The crate is broken open - after a dark, cold ride in the boot of a vehicle - Land Rover without much thought as to what - or who might be in it.   
  
A bag's put over his head, and he's tied to a [metal chair](http://seriousjokerfan.deviantart.com/).   
  
He doesn't need to be told who it is. He should have known.   
Eventually the bag's pulled off, and he squints at the harsh light.   
  
"Hello, Sherlock. Oh. Right. You're not the detective any more are you?"   
  
He looks up, confused, and a brief nod from Moriarty - he is struck across the cheek for the gesture.   
  
"You don't. Get the privilege of seeing my face."   
  
 _Dramatic_ , he thinks. _Boring_. "How quaint of you. I should have sus-."   
  
The breath's forced out of him by a precise punch to the stomach. From one of the henchmen. French, had omelette this morning, cold-blooded, killer. Obvious.   
  
"Now. We're not playing [games](http://seriousjokerfan.deviantart.com/) any more, Sherlock. Unless you want to decide who dies first."   
  
Fear squeezes around his chest, disguised as he catches his breath. They couldn't die. Not now.    
  
"That's it. Now, I think our patient needs more suitable attire - don't you?"   
  
Something's snapped around his neck. Cold, metal. A collar - most likely.  
Hospital gown - prison uniform 45631B020Z.  
  
"Alright boys. Punish it for it's crimes, but nothing permanent or penetrative yet." The glint in Moriarty's eyes chills Sherlock to the core. "I want to do that myself."   
They first use their fists - then they find what's the best objects to beat him with. Someone provides a riding crop - or some sort of lash.   
  
By then his head is throbbing so badly he's not deducing this place any more. Or what they've chosen to beat him with.   
They finally drag him off to a cellar and someone rubs analgesic over his bruises - and they leave him, chained and half-broken.   
  
 _He sleeps, fitfully._

 

________________________________________________________________________________________

 

He is kept in the dark. 

No light. 

 

_No conductor of light._

  


He shivers at the cold, but he doesn’t beg for any amenities. He has not fallen that far. Yet. 

  


Eventually someone roughly grips his arm,  and liquid enters his veins. Muscles relax, falling limp.

  


When they release the bonds and he tries to struggle, he finds it useless.

  


“Oh. We forgot to tell you,” one of them says. “It’s a paralytic. Won’t be able to move for at least an hour.” 

  


He tries to speak, to defy them, but the words die in his throat and his muscles are rendered incoperative. 

 

He struggles against the blindfold over his eyes. Tries employing his hearing, but the scraping he can hear against the walls, proves nothing. 

  


Finally he’s dropped on the floor. 

  


Blindfold’s pulled off. 

  


He’s been led out of his cell and carried a room. Unless… this is his room.

Flipped roughly on his stomach. He’d laugh bitterly if he could speak. 

This is really supposed to be the tactic for causing him pain? With the paralytic he won’t feel a thing. 

  


He couldn’t be more wrong. 

He can’t struggle. Can’t scream. He can whimper, but that’s really about it. 

  


He tries to somehow plead. 

_Please don’t do this. Not this. Anything but this._

But they don’t hear him. Don't hear his panicked thoughts though they laugh at the terror on his face. 

  


They don’t care. Someone catcalls. 

  


“Remember,” someone says - a dark voice he doesn’t recognize, pulling back his curls roughly, and he finds his jaw is locked, he can’t even bite down on his cheek. “You’re nothing. Always nothing. Soon, even you will believe it.” Someone shoves his face into the wet concrete. 

Someone holds his legs apart. 

 

Soft hands trail down to cup his arse, and he'd shiver if he were capable of moving. Instead, his muscles twitch slightly - beyond his control.

Probing causes him to want to squirm but he can’t. It doesn’t last long before the finger - or the object - he's not quite sure which - is replaced by thick flesh.

 

_Dumb Zero. Filthy Zero._

_Slut._

The violation lasts for what feels like hours. He cries, hot tears spilling down his cheeks as one after the other take him, thrusting into his limp frame. 


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive, Matchbox Twenty's "Bent" and Thirty Seconds to Mars "Hurricane" and Vitamin String's "Carry On My Wayward Son" have been on repeat for inspiration. 
> 
> It is also really difficult to make this my own, as I've probably read nearly everyone of these.

He finally is left alone, feeling as though someone had pulled out his insides and left him bleeding on the floor. A gag is stuffed in his mouth, and he tries not to empty the meager contents left in his stomach. His mouth tastes bitter and salty.  _Like them._

The door slams shut. 

  


He presses his heated body against the cool, rough concrete, pleading for relief. 

He's dizzy, so dizzy. 

 

He's not simply left alone to starve. 

The monsters, as he's come to think of them, don't stop coming for him at night. 

 

Or perhaps it's during the day. His cell has no light - no concept of time. 

He shudders. 

Maybe he will be what they want. 

Just a little. 

Just to make it stop. 

 

He wants to be alone, but that's   
The water bucket has run out a day ago, and he licks parched lips. 

A bug skitters across the floor, but he can't find the ability to move. 

Perhaps he wants to die anyway...

 

Unless he's already dead. 

Perhaps he's in Hell. 

Mycroft didn't even know he was alive. 

Shouldn't have kept a secret from his brother. 

 

He's not sure how long it is before they begin not to leave him alone in his cell, clicking bright halogens in his face everytime he tries to sleep. He's used to not sleeping during a case, but by the fourth day he's crying, unable to speak through the gag. _Please, just let me sleep._

 

Someone enters his cell. Moriarty again, grinning down at him, wrinkling his nose a little. 

"Don't you ever bathe it?" 

He's not as exhausted that he misses that. So he's an object then to them. 

Considering how he's been treated, that made sense. 

 

"Rinse it off and and then drag it upstairs." 

 

He flinches and then shivers when the ice water hits his skin. 

He's not given anything to wear - and when he tries to stand, someone - he's quite sure it's Ali - the one with the beefy hands, kicks him back to the ground, likely fracturing the third - or perhaps fourth rib.

 

"You're not allowed to stand up, _Master's pet."_

He's too desperate at the thought of water or perhaps a morsel to argue. 


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took alot of risks in this chapter, I am still not sure I like it. Keep letting me know someone is reading, maybe?

A collar's fastened around his neck and he is dragged upstairs. 

Shaky, abused limbs don't cooperate well to movement, and a few times he is shoved or kicked. 

 

Finally he's in front of a chair and he can tell just by the Gucci shoes it's Moriarty. 

"Mhm. Still isn't clean. Doubt it ever will be." 

 

He shivers, cold ice water still dripping between his legs. "Be still!" The harsh voice makes him flinch - more in surprise than fear.

There's a sharp jab with the cane to his ribs. "Still, Zero." 

 

He's still. Even though he still knows his name isn't Zero. 

A plate's shoved under his nose. It's not dog-food, persay - just a stew, really. 

He stares at it for a moment, before sitting down, about to pick up the plate. 

 

"Ah!" Someone twists his arm back, holding it there, bones straining against the pressure.

"You do not eat, unless you're told. Pet." Sebastian. 

 

Sebastian that always makes him feel as though his insides are tearing themselves apart. 

He sees Moriarty smirking out of the corner of his eye. Smirking at his terror, because of this particular week. 

 

Moriarty's reading his mind, relishing in his panic. He's afraid he's going to be gagged again, violated on the floor, though probably taken back to his cell as his Keeper won't allow such on his lovely rug. Or he might. 

He doesn't know what his Keeper wants anymore. Can't predict. 

"P-please," he finally begs, his dull eyes starved for anything to eat - anything other than salty, bitter flesh shoved down his throat. 

 

Moriarty nods and he hears the bones in his wrist crack and he lets out a cry of pain. 

"You want the gag back, is that it?" Sebastian hisses at him. Mo

 

He shakes his head, 'no' - frantic. 

 

"Eat that off the floor. Every bit, you understand? Stupid, stupid, worthless Zero. Don't use your hands. You're nothing now. 

You're a machine. Isn't that what your best friend calls you, hmm? A machine?" 

 

_John._

_"You once half-killed a man for laying a finger on her!_

_Sod this. Sod this. You machine!"_

 

"Oh," Moriarty, hums, slightly pleased and from Sherlock's position he can see the bulge of arousal - he's been drugged - he doesn't know who's had him and who hasn't. They've blindfolded him most of the time. "But he's not your best friend anymore is he? You can't _be_ best friends with someone who's dead. Or with a machine." 

 

 _No!_ He tries to fight it, but something sinks in his gut. It's true. 

"Leave us, Sebastian." The predatory gaze that's cast at him makes him shiver. He finds that he's trying to scrabble away, but he's weak - so weak - body betrays him 

_over and over..._

 

He isn't going to be treated like a human anymore. 

Perhaps never. 

 

A pinprick calms him easily and he pants wearily.   
"See? Isn't that better love?" 

  
Master's fingers prod, opening him up - but that's hardly necessary, really. 

After the past week. 

 

His head almost touches the floor. 

He doesn't have the will to fight this. 

It hurts to fight - and he isn't a maschochist. He doesn't like it to hurt. 

 

Nothing.  _Fuck._

Hell.  _Fuck._

__

Zero.

 

Master claims his skin, leaving his body numb. 

 

 


End file.
